Designer Hearts
by Spider Baby-Firefly
Summary: We're putting the funk in dysfunktion. GraveRobber/Shilo and Luigi/Amber. An odd mishmash of angst, creepiness, fluff, and dark humor. First chapter: Grilo.
1. Still Beat

**Wrote this on a whim for Valentine's day. Next chapter should be up tomorrow; it'll be the last one, and it'll be Luigi/Amber.**

**OoO**

"Hey, kitten," GraveRobber called softly to the waifish form in the black leather trench coat that had appeared at the mouth of his alleyway. That was what he called her now—kitten, not kid. The two were close in sound, at least, and the former had become much more appropriate than the latter.

"Graves," Shilo greeted back in that soft little voice that could break anybody's heart. Good thing GraveRobber didn't have one.

"How's life?" He drawled as Shilo approached. The girl's lips, outlined in that cherry-red lipstick she'd taken to wearing, twisted in a combination scowl-grimace. "Like that, huh?"

"That's why I'm here," she muttered, now standing at the base of the carefully arranged trashcans GraveRobber sat upon like a king on a throne.

"Oh, kitten," he smiled lopsidedly down at the petite girl, "you know you don't need an excuse to come and see me."

"I know," Shilo replied with a small half-smile of her own.

In keeping with routine, GraveRobber pulled one of his little glass vials from the inside of his jacket, and took a moment to examine Shilo in the halo of blue glow. With those painted red lips against her eerie-pale skin, that uneven shag of black hair over her mile-high cheekbones, and those newfound shadows haunting her dark doe-eyes, Shilo Wallace looked almost like a woman. Almost.

In turn, Shilo regarded him with an alert, birdlike tilt of her head. Her eyes paused briefly on the bottle of glow, but they did not linger; did not long for it. Shilo was not desperate, not addicted, not a junkie. Not yet. GraveRobber wondered if that would last, and for how long, and if he would try to help her, or if he would be able to, or if he would even want to. None of those questions had to be answered tonight.

If anybody on the face of this wrecked planet deserved some drug-induced peace of mind, some shred of chemical heaven in the middle of hell, it would have to be Shilo Wallace. That was how GraveRobber saw it, and that was why he didn't charge her. Of course he occasionally recruited Shilo for cemetery harvesting expeditions or crashed nights at her house in exchange for his services, but those were really just formalities. A real gentleman, GraveRobber was.

At least, that had been the course of things ever since the night Shilo hadn't had any money, and, determined to take things like a grown up and not chicken out, had fumbled with a button on her blouse. Couldn't quite get it open. Cute. GraveRobber stopped her with a shake of his head. "Kid, you're worth a hell of a lot more than a bottle of zombie snot."

At this, Shilo actually laughed a little, putting a hand over her mouth to stop the very un-adult giggle. Then she frowned. "So then, what...?"

"No charge," GraveRobber said, as casually as though this wasn't the first time that anything vaguely resembling that phrase had ever left his mouth. And Shilo just looked at him, puzzled but pleased, and grateful, and _Oh God kid, just stop. You're killing me._

But ever since then, Shilo had gotten stronger and smarter, not weaker and hazier like most early Z-addicts. Sometimes, she really did stop by just to say hello to GraveRobber, as awkward as those visits were. There were days when GraveRobber even entertained the notion that maybe, Shilo never would become a junkie; that she'd ease of Zydrate completely and get her life together once and for all. And then where would that leave the two of them?

Well, never mind, because now Shilo was here and giving GraveRobber that same old look: half-shy hope mingled with anticipation. The only response GraveRobber had to that face was to pat the lid of the trash can he'd previously been using as a foot rest, eliciting a god-awful metallic noise. Shilo shrugged off the floor-length trench and laid it over a dumpster so that she could crawl up. GraveRobber helped tug the girl up by her wrists, and she was just too damn light—little bird bones and not a spare drop of fat on her twiggy frame.

And for God's sake, Shilo had to learn better than to wear those little white nightgowns when she came to see him. The damn things were practically see-through. And the tall black socks did _not _make it any better.

A lesson for another time. GraveRobber knew by now that Shilo fit perfectly between his legs, like a little China Doll with her big eyes and red lips; when she tucked her head under his chin, her shorn hair tickled his neck. That, incidentally, was part of why he called her Kitten—the way she curled up so nicely on his lap. When Shilo held out her arm, her Basilic vein was eerily pronounced through her translucent-pale skin. Sapphire blue on its own, without the aid of Zydrate.

Speaking of, GraveRobber took out his gun, loaded the vial, and shot it with professional ease into Shilo's bloodstream. The girl gasped, and her body seized once, violently, against GraveRobber's. Delicious. Then, she melted into them with a dove's coo. Honestly, Shilo Wallace was too damn adorable for her own good.

GraveRobber remembered the first time Shilo had come to him. The night of _The _Opera (for that was how people referred to it now,) Shilo stood before him, dazed and blood-splattered and shaking. There were tears in the corners of her eyes, but none of them fell. "Jesus, kid," GraveRobber had muttered. He'd waited for Shilo to speak, not having the faintest clue of what she would say.

"Did you mean it?" She'd said, and GraveRobber had frowned.

"Mean what?"

"Before. You called me beautiful. Did you mean it?" Shilo said, voice and face so helpless and empty.

_Funny sort of kid,_ GraveRobber had thought. "Do you want me to mean it?"

"I guess...I don't really care," Shilo replied. She stood for a moment, eyes huge and dilated, and then she collapsed, falling for GraveRobber to catch.

Now, with one arm around the petite girls waist, and the other ruffling through her soft, soft hair, GraveRobber was really the only thing securing Shilo to this world. His hold on her was relatively gentle, but not so much tender as it was possessive. Somewhere along the way, GraveRobber had gotten to deciding that Shilo was his; GraveRobber didn't have that many possessions in this world, so God help anybody who tried to mess with him or his. And Shilo, surely, was a wonderful creature to own—fascinating and rare and still innocent after all she'd been through. Never mind that GraveRobber probably shouldn't have Shilo at all; he did, and he wasn't letting her go.

And he knew it wasn't right, what he was doing. Whatever name he called Shilo, she was just a kid who'd lost everything, who was _lost_ period, who'd foolishly turned to the Big Bad Wolf for help, because he was all she had. And he was happy to take advantage. Well, no one had ever accused GraveRobber of being a good person.


	2. With Common Blood

**Yikes, sorry this took so much longer than what I originally said. This was my first attempt at Luigi/Amber, so let me know what you think. Sorry if it's a bit OOC. I hope everybody enjoyed this fic :)**

**OoO**

"Brother dearest..."

Some nights just started out like this, with Amber whispering in Luigi's ear and grabbing none-too-gently at his crotch. By now, Luigi reacted on instinct (which was good, because Luigi believed that thinking was a waste of valuable time,) spinning to grab his sister roughly by the shoulders and shove her up against the nearest hard surface (which in this case happened to be the corridor wall.)

"Popped your stitches again?" Amber inquired breathily as her and Luigi's bodies found a familiar rhythm.

"Shut up," Luigi snarled into Amber's neck, biting down hard for emphasis (she tasted like chemicals and overripe strawberries,) "I hate it when you talk."

Amber was right, though; Luigi had fouled up his stitches again (strained himself while taking a few stabs at a reporter. Stupid.) He was sorted out now, thanks to the SurGENs, and Amber appeared to be coming from an adjacent operating room, all flouncy white lace and fresh skin grafts. Luigi knew how horny his sister got after these kinds of surgeries (said she was extra-sensitive, tingly.)

"Well let's see if we can't ruin them again," Amber hummed, despite her brother's evasion. She wound her hands under Luigi's button-down shirt and dug her fingernails (newly implanted, manicured) into a line of scar tissue on his torso.

"You're fucked up," Luigi growled, rough but with a hint of approval.

Amber laughed, high and giddy. "We can afford to be depraved."

Luigi grunted (bitch had a point) and placed his hands at either side of her needlessly frilly bodice. Unceremoniously, he gripped the hemline and tore the flimsy white fabric down the middle, from the ribbed bustier top to the trimming of ivory tulle that served as a skirt. As the garment ripped, Amber made a sound of annoyance.

"_Careful_, asshole."

"_Make_ me, slut."

Both Largos grinned. Luigi teased a couple of the stitches over Amber's collarbone between his teeth, while Amber tugged open her brother's shirt, destroying multiple buttons in the process. Then, she raked her fingernails down his back to leave lines of red that would certainly be there tomorrow.

"Enough foreplay," Amber gasped, "let's get horizontal."

"Where—"

"The operation room."

"Smart girl."

_Knew there was a reason she was running this place,_ Luigi thought (though he would never say such a thing out loud. Regardless, Luigi grabbed his sister, tossing her over his shoulder like it was nothing and carrying her into the nearby surgery room. Amber giggled madly, kicking her feet out and accidentally knocking over a jar of blood samples with a stiletto heel, long and wickedly pointed as one of Luigi's beloved knives. The glass shattered against the operating table, and Luigi brushed the glittering slivers off the metal surface before throwing Amber down on it (cause he was a gentleman like that.) Neither sibling minded the red spillage that coated the table; as far as they were concerned, blood was the best sort of lubricant.

"And now look at all the toys we have to play with," Amber purred, slanting a heavy-lidded glance (fake lashes covered with glitter) at the tray of scalpels, syringes, and other medical apparati lined up and gleaming beside the table.

And it was just then that Luigi had an unexpected (admittedly kind of creepy) flash of Amber, back when she was just a kid—but she was Carmella then. Luigi remembered a day (God, so long ago) when Carmella had come up to him, crying, because some boy on the street had grabbed her breast. Luigi had broken both of the little prick's arms. Now, Carmella—_No, **Amber**, dammit—_was hooking her long, booted legs around Luigi's waist, slick black leather caressing his bare waist. And hell, she looked so different, with all those damn surgeries warping her face and body, but when Luigi really looked, he could still see Carmella in Amber's face. Good thing he didn't usually try all that hard.

Because it was almost impossible to imagine those two girls as being one, Amber and Carmella. They were just not the _same_. But Luigi knew it didn't matter, really, what incarnation of herself Amber Sweet was, or what face she chose to wear; he loved his psychotic bitch of a little sister.


End file.
